


Here Comes Trouble

by Jillypups



Series: we're bigger than we ever dreamed [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Mild Smut, Modern AU, THANK YOU BEX FOR LETTING ME PLAY IN THIS UNIVERSE, and crab cakes, braavos has some nice hotels, but a girl's gotta get hers amirite, god I suck at tags, royals au, set in westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 09:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8838604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: The seven kingdoms are still seven kingdoms. Margaery is princess of The Reach, third in line for the crown, perhaps even farther down now that her brother Willas married Jeyne Poole. Couple that fact with her meeting Bronn Blackwater, bartender at her brother the crown prince's wedding, well. Here comes trouble.   Picset





	

They’ve only been in Braavos for a week, but their three room suite in The Titan Hotel and Resort looks like it’s been lived in for months. Expensive clothes are strewn over nearly every piece of exquisitely designed furniture, left wherever they were thrown during the beginning stages of numerous throes of ecstasy. Dornish guitar coming from a state of the art stereo drifts throughout the suite, filling an otherwise silent space with its soft, seductive strains, and the scents of a half-eaten brunch mingle with the music, warm and buttery, a perfect contrast to the grey drizzly sky that can be seen through the gauzy drift of translucent curtains.

It is sexy, here, all tangled sheets and champagne for breakfast. It is wild, here, lights left on at all hours of the night and room service trays outside in the hall. It is romance, here, with soft nothings and profound everythings murmured in the small hours of the night and in the hot steam in the shower. And if Margaery is perfectly honest with herself, and she almost always is, it’s love, here, too.

Not that she’s going to admit that to Bronn anytime soon.

No, they’ve been jet-setting and hotel-crashing all over Essos for the past two weeks for the pure, hedonistic fun of it, to get away from reality and responsibility and to just, as Bronn likes to say, fuck the day away. Sometimes literally. Margaery leans over the bathroom sink, the marble counter a cold press against the thin silk negligee covering her belly, and carefully applies her mascara, and ignores for now the niggling feeling she’s had ever since she realized she’s falling in love with him. That this illicit sort of vacation, completely unbeknownst to her parents, is the only way a princess can spend time with the bartender she met at her brother’s wedding back at Highgarden six months ago.

“There’s my pussycat,” Bronn says from the bathroom doorway, a materialization of black hair and swarthy bare chest and, she realizes with a laugh when she glances from her task to his reflection in the mirror, not a single scrap of clothing.

“You can just keep that thing away from _my_ pussycat, buddy. I am _insanely_ sore. And,” she adds, giving her face a final assessment before tossing the mascara back in her makeup bag and turning to face him, “I still don’t believe you didn’t take Viagra. You were an absolute animal last night.”

He laughs, absolutely unashamed and guiltless as he stretches out an arm and tugs her into an embrace, his hand a firm sweep of warmth down her back.

“No little blue pills for me, baby. You just bring it out of me, I guess.” He squeezes her ass with a bawdy grip of two hands but there’s still affection here, here where he presses a kiss to the top of her head, the way she’s always wanted, the way she’s never gotten until him.

“Well, keep it reined in today, big boy,” she says, though she drags her nails down his sides to tease him before she smacks a kiss on his chest and steps back to wag a finger in his face. “I fully intend to leave the hotel today. I want to eat as much fresh seafood as I can, and not the limited stuff on the room service menu,” she says, slipping past him to pick something to wear from one of her three huge suitcases. “I didn’t come all the way to Braavos just to eat the same crab cakes over and over again.”

“You’re the boss, babe,” he says from the bathroom, just before the squeak of the faucet and sudden rush of water as the shower comes on.

Margaery frowns, glances over her shoulder into the open doorway of the bathroom. She hasn’t been the sole princess of The Reach her entire life without picking up on passive aggressive resentment in people, though in the six months they’ve been sneaking around, Bronn has never pulled her rank before. She bites her lip and slinks back into the bathroom, pulls back the shower curtain to study him.

Oh, but he’s delicious. Lithe, mean and lean, muscles he’s carved out in a scuzzy downtown gym instead of the in-palace exercise studio where she practices barre and yoga. She watches the flex of his back and shoulders as he scrubs at his body with a washcloth, the beat and stream of water on his skin, and she grins when he turns around to rinse off and sees her. Unfazed where some people would startle to find out they’re been spied on, Bronn simply smirks and closes his eyes as he tilts the shower head to aim the water at his face.

“Change your mind already?”

Margaery huffs with mock incredulity.

“Of course not. When I say something, I mean it.” Arms crossed over her chest to show him she means business, and also maybe to push her breasts together and make him _really_ miss what he’s not getting.

Bronn laughs, bows his head to scrub his hair in the water, tilts his face towards her and opens open eye in a squint as he looks at her.

“Yes, Your Highness. Or is it Your Grace? I can never remember.”

“From you, I only want to be called by my name,” she says, and all the mock disappears when she pouts at him. _Or pussycat,_ she thinks as she frowns again. “Are you feeling weird or something? About, um, you know,” she says, and while self-expression has never been a problem for her, suddenly she feels shy.

“What, about you being royalty? Your dad being king instead of a plumber like mine?” he says, tilting the shower head down now to get the water out of his face, and now he’s frowning back at her, and that has her terrified all of a sudden.

 _Love,_ she’d thought earlier. And it’s love she’s thinking now.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“Baby, I think it’s fuckin’ amazing that you’re royalty,” he says. “Even if none of my friends believe me when I tell them I'm boning a princess.”

Margaery hums with mild suspicion as she stands there, still frowning, still poised for unbidden rejection or resentment. Bronn snorts, wipes the water out of his eyes with a wet hand.

“Listen, I’m not some insecure prick with an inferiority complex just because the girl I’m seeing has more than I do. I’m used to people having more than me. Besides, I _know_ you, baby girl. You’re just a person, same as me.”

 _“Just_ a person?” she repeats, utterly taken aback. “Just a _person_?”

He laughs from deep in his chest and belly, head thrown back here amidst all the steam and warmth that’s starting to make sweat prickle through her makeup and between her breasts. Margaery is _this_ close to being ticked, especially when he suddenly jerks to action, reaches out and snags her by the hips and drags her into the shower, negligee and all.

“Bronn, what the hell!” she shrieks, struggling in his arms as he wraps them around her in a soaking wet bear hug from behind. “I just did my hair and makeup!”

“Yeah. A person,” he says, plainly ignoring her protestation as he squeezes her tight. “A sexy, stubborn, sneaky person with a fierce as fuck attitude and an ass so tight I could bounce a copper coin off it,” he says, bowing his head over her shoulder to kiss her throat. “Same as me,” he says, and she can’t help but laugh to hear the amusement in his voice.

“Well you’re definitely right about not being insecure,” she says dryly, rolling her eyes at his pride just as he lets go of her to cup her breasts.

“I could bounce a copper coin off these beauties, too.”

“Oh, shut up,” she sighs happily.

Her eyes close and her head sags back against him as he continues to knead and massage and squeeze her, and yes she’s sore but not in that wonderful place he starts rubbing once he abandons one breast for the task. The wet silk of her nightie clings to her skin across her belly and to his wrist as he works an orgasm out of her, his fingers more than expert at the way she works now, and her legs shake when she lifts up on her tiptoes, one hand to the tile wall, the other reached up behind her to fist his hair.

She imagines sitting astride him, imagines sitting on his face, simply imagines him, dark laughter and darker eyes, irreverent and amused, and she thinks _Gods, I love him,_ and that’s enough, right there. That’s all it really takes before her hips start to rock and the climax crests and explodes.

“Come for me, Princess,” he murmurs in her ear before he sucks it into his mouth, making her moan so loud it echoes. “Come for me, Your Grace,” he hisses.

“Oh gods, yes,” she gasps, high and thin on the tip of her tongue. “Yes, Bronn, yes.”

“What a good girl,” he whispers. “What a wonderful, wonderful girl.”

“Good boy, right back at you,” she says with a breathless laugh. “A very, very good boy, even though you’re rotten.”

“To my very core, pussycat,” he grins against her cheek before kissing her there.

They’re both in hotel robes picking over their own leftovers under sterling cloches, sipping mimosas and grinning at each other with wet hair, and she’s just beginning to resign herself to the fact that they’re probably not going to even get dressed today, let alone leave the room, when Bronn slaps his thighs and stands up out of his chair.

“All right, little lady, put your glad rags on. We’re going out.”

“Yeah?” she asks, girlishly light and eager as she sits up straight and gazes up at him.

Bronn nods. “Yep. I know it’s what you want to do.”

“Well what do _you_ want to do?” she asks as he leans down, takes her by the hand, and tugs her up and to her feet.

“Baby, we could take out the fucking trash and I’d have a good time. So it’s whatever you want to do,” he says.

He steps into her, cups her face in his hands to kiss her once, twice, a third time that blends into four-five-six-and-seven, it lasts so long, and it melts away the room and the hotel and the city and the entire realm. Tongues and licks and tastes, whimpers and sighs, and then the sudden jarring pounding on the door.

Margaery jumps at the sudden interruption with her lower lip still sucked into his mouth, and the chain reaction of her tensing up and pulling back so quickly ends with Bronn accidentally biting her lip over-hard.  

“That scared the _shit_ out of me,” he says with a shake of his head, and his shoulders lift up reflexively when there’s another series of loud knocks. He frowns down at her. “Fuck, Margaery, are you all right?” he says, reaching out to gently brush her lip with his thumb. “I nipped you pretty good, there.”

“I’m okay, honestly,” she says, squeezing his raised hand with hers before pulling it down from her face. “Did you order more champagne or something?”

“Nope. I’ll make them go away, though,” he says as he steps past her and strides to the door, pulling it open as he simultaneously says “What’s up, man?”

And those are the first words Bronn ever says to His Royal Highness, Mace Tyrell.

 _Oh shit oh shit oh shit,_ Margaery thinks as her heart sinks, as her bubble bursts, as her little love affair gusts over like a feeble house of cards.

“What’s _up_ , man?” Mace bellows as he shoves past Bronn to step into what can only be described as a den of iniquity. “Is that how you address your king? Is that how you address the father of the woman you’ve been ruining?”

Hastily, Margaery snatches a lace bra from the back of a chair and tosses it behind the table before putting on her game face and stepping towards her father, who’s nearly purple in the face, he is that worked up. She rests a hand on his chest and tilts her head to the side.

“ _Ruining_? Daddy, please, you sound positively medieval. I’m a grown woman, I am allowed to live my life.”

“You’re a royal princess of The Reach! You have a reputation to uphold, and cavorting around Essos with this- with this _commoner_ is not the way to do it.”

“How do you know we’ve been cavorting? Did you send someone to detail me? You know I _hate_ it when you do that. Granny told you it was disrespectful,” she says with a toss of her head, trying her best to turn this around on him.

Mace snorts an insincere laugh.

“No, I haven’t, but nice try, young lady. I didn’t survive your high school years without learning one or two of your tricks. No, I found out because your brother left his iPad on the table with his Instagram open. You’ve been posting pictures ever since you left for Arbor Island. _Which,_ ” he adds as Margaery closes her eyes and sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose as she instantly regrets being so cavalier, “was supposed to be a trip to do charity work and help clean up the oil spill.”

Margaery winces. She had felt _so_ bad for using that as their cover that Bronn had to talk her out of a funk for the first two days of their trip. He’d suggested that she go back to Arbor Island after they were done with their – _with our what? What is this? Is this even real –_ whatever this little fantasy is, and add an extra week to her public service to make her feel better. He’d been kind. He’d been sweet to her. She glances to where he’s still standing by the door, gazing at her with something like sorrow, something like regret. _I love him and he’s regretting even going on this trip._ She’s not a crier, but by the gods, all of a sudden she feels like it.

“What- is that- Margaery Tyrell, is that _blood_ on your face?” Mace says.

She looks back at her father, startled by the switch in subjects, and he’s staring at her mouth with a bug-eyed look of angry disbelief that shifts to absolute rage, right here before her eyes. Mace spins on the heel of his lizard lion shoes and storms across the room, and he shows some of his old strength when he grabs Bronn by the terrycloth lapels of his robe and shoves him back against the wall.

“Daddy, stop it!” Margaery shrieks, and she rushes over and tugs on her father’s beefy shoulder.

“Did you hit her, you classless son of a bitch? Did you hit my daughter, you bastard?!” Two rough shakes of the bathrobe so hard it nearly pulls it off of him.

“Fuck no, man! I mean, fuck no, Your Grace, or whatever.” It’s the first time she’s seen something or someone ruffle him.

“Daddy, _stop_ this, it was just an accident."

“An _accident?_ So you didn’t _mean_ to hit her but you did anyways?” he roars.

“I didn’t hit her, by the shitty damned gods, not even by accident. I fucking _love_ her, all right? I _love_ her. I could never hit her,” he says, and even though he’s talking to Mace, he’s looking past him, right at Margaery, where she’s standing with both hands pressed over her mouth. “I could never hit her, Your Grace. I’m in love with her.”

Stunned, Mace lets go of the robe and staggers back, just in time to make room for Margaery, who drifts towards Bronn like a ghost ship.

“You’re in love with me?” she whispers.

“Oh for pity’s sake,” Mace mutters from behind her.

“Yeah baby, I’m in love with you. Have been for a long time now. I just, I don’t know, I figured it was a lost cause. That you’d find some prince or that something like _this_ would happen,” he says, nodding towards her father.

 _That’s why he looked so regretful,_ Margaery thinks with the arc of happiness firing off in her heart like a twenty one gun salute. _He wasn’t regretting us, he was regretting it ending._

The Others take her if she lets _that_ happen.

“Well at least you’ve got some measure of brains in that thick skull of yours, because you’re right, this _is_ a lost cause. Come on, Margaery, we’re leaving.”

“No,” she says dreamily, hand on the stubble of Bronn’s jaw as they smile at each other, and it’s not a kiss that melts away the room and the hotel and the city and the realm, it’s just a handful of beautiful words from the right man.

“ _No_?” Mace says, all indignant shock as he raises his voice and repeats himself. “ _No_? You’re a princess, daughter to the king of The Reach, and you’re telling me no?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Margaery says, turning around and taking Bronn’s arms to wrap them around her, and she leans back against him, head held high as she regards her father coolly. “I’m not going anywhere with you unless Bronn comes too.”

“Don’t tell me you’re falling for this man’s rubbish, Margaery. You’re better than this. You’re _smarter_ than this.”

“Willas and Jeyne just got married. He’s crown prince and judging by how they could barely keep their hands off each other, there’ll be a bunch of Tyrell heirs running around Highgarden in no time. I’ll never sit the throne, so that means I can choose whomever I want to stand by my side. And _I’m_ choosing Bronn.”

“Hey, thanks, pussycat,” Bronn murmurs.

“What on earth has come over you, Margaery? You could get anyone you want, why on earth are you settling for _him_?” Mace says, all sputter and fluster and gesticulation as he waves both hands towards the pair of them.

“Because,” she smiles, twisting in Bronn’s arms to face him, and she slides her arms up and over his shoulders, and he’s smiling down at her, his forehead creased like she’s a mystery even though he’s starting to know her better than anyone. “I’m in love with him too.”

“Oh for- this is _ridiculous,_ ” Mace snaps, running his hand up the length of his face to the top of his balding head. “My children are losing their damned minds. First Loras and now you. Next I know, Garlan is going to run away to join a mummer’s troupe. Just keep the trashier photos off Instagram, for pity’s sake. You still have an image to maintain,” Mace says with a sigh of resignation as he brushes past them towards the door. “And _you,_ ” he says to Bronn, pointing a finger at his face, but true to his word, Bronn doesn’t even flinch. “I better not be seeing you at holiday dinners any time soon.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Bronn says, a grin to his voice despite his poker face.

Mace gives him a withering glare before he yanks open the heavy hotel door and sweeps out of the room.

They are quiet for a few moments as they gaze at each other in the wake of her father the king’s departure, but there’s giddy love here now, and it only takes another moment more before they burst into laughter.

“You really stepped up to the bat back there for me, pussycat,” he says after he kisses her, harder and hungrier than before. “Nobody’s ever done that before.”

Margaery tips her head to the side and shrugs in his arms. “I love you. And you should know, I always get my way,” she says, and she gives him a wicked grin that makes him laugh and haul her up in his arms.

“Believe me, baby, I know. And it’s just the way I like you.”


End file.
